


this is a place where i feel at home

by oftheheart



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 07:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6973345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftheheart/pseuds/oftheheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fiiiiiitz,” she whines, leaning closer to kiss the corner of his mouth in the way she does when she’s feeling particularly playful (and determined to get laid, if she’s being perfectly honest, because she knows it drives him mad). It has somewhat of the desired effect, causing Fitz to crack open an eye blearily, squinting at her. “Time to get up.”</p><p>She <i>almost</i> directs the statement towards his penis but decides against it. She needn’t give him a stroke first thing in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is a place where i feel at home

**Author's Note:**

> Title credit: "To Build A Home" by The Cinematic Orchestra.

Living off base is a peculiar feeling for Jemma.

She’s been eager for it for _so_ long, instantly agreeing the moment Fitz suggested they move into a real place together rather than alternating between sleeping in each other’s bunks back on the SHIELD base. But it’s still weird and so different because they use keys instead of passes to unlock their apartment door, and they have to manually open and close all of their windows, and more often than not, Jemma ends up double (and sometimes triple) checking all of the locks before she and Fitz go to sleep.

(She also gets up at 3am every night to check the locks again, just in case, and if Fitz notices, he doesn’t say anything - just grips her tighter around her middle when she climbs back into bed.) 

There is no overnight lighting in their apartment unlike back on the base, but Jemma does keep several nightlights on in various places around their small apartment because she’s never been fond of the darkness, really, but also because the nightmares haven’t stopped and probably never will.

While she doesn’t get them as frequently as Fitz, whose body shakes and quivers and fidgets in the night at least four times a week, they still provide a small sense of comfort when Jemma has trouble sleeping or when Fitz wakes abruptly from a dream and can see the curve of her body, curled into him as always.

But the weirdest thing about living away from the base is that the light filters in through the windows of their bedroom and Jemma can actually feel the morning sun on her face as opposed to dragging herself out of bed to watch it rise. Their walls aren’t made of brick, harboring darkness, but instead—brightness shines against the white of their walls in the morning and then warm colors decorate their room in the evening, cocooning them.

It’s weird but it’s the best feeling, waking up to Fitz like this—buried underneath an absurd amount of blankets, his mouth open slightly as small snores filter out.

Jemma smiles slowly, tracing the crinkling in his eyebrows as his morning grumpiness sets in, and she’s never adored him more than in this moment, stubbornly protesting against being woken up from his slumber as if he’s nine years old rather than twenty-nine.  

She slides down a bit, leveling with his face before pressing a kiss against his forehead in an attempt to rouse him. Fitz shifts a bits, winding his arm back around her middle to pull her closer, but otherwise, he remains still. 

Jemma kisses his nose this time. “Hey, sleepyhead,” she coos, though her voice is gravelly from sleep. “Time to join the living.”

Fitz grumbles something that doesn’t sound like English at all against her shirt—well, _technically_ it’s his shirt that she stole from him a number of years ago and never gave back, but those details are irrelevant as far as Jemma’s concerned—and presses his face deeper into her side.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

“ _Hrmff_.”

Jemma chuckles quietly, carding her fingers through his hair. “Fiiiiiitz,” she whines, leaning closer to kiss the corner of his mouth in the way she does when she’s feeling particularly playful (and determined to get laid, if she’s being perfectly honest, because she knows it drives him mad). It has somewhat of the desired effect, causing Fitz to crack open an eye blearily, squinting at her. “Time to get up.”

She _almost_ directs the statement towards his penis but decides against it. She needn’t give him a stroke first thing in the morning.  

He groans pitifully. “What time _is_ it?” He demands, his words slurred around the edges, and Jemma’s heart lurches at the sound.  

“Sometime past seven, I believe.”

Fitz immediately opens both eyes, sitting up to glare at her properly. “Simmons. _Please_.” The annoyance in his voice is clear but doesn’t have much impact considering bits of his hair is sticking upright. “It’s Saturday and while _you_ may enjoy your demented morning routine of waking up at bloody 6am, I refuse to be dragged into this.” His statement is emphasized by him rolling to face the other direction, signaling the end of the conversation.

Jemma gasps, affronted. “Are you serious right now?”

“As a heart attack,” Fitz deadpans, drawing the covers up to his shoulders.

Jemma stews for a few moments before deciding on a new approach. “Oh, well, that just won’t do, will it?” She climbs over his waist, straddling his hipbone briefly as she plants her hand against his chest before forcing him onto his back, almost bursting out with laughter at the alarmed expression on his face.

“Jemma, _what_ —”

“Now, Fitz, you and I both know how seriously I take heart attacks. Shall I check for palpitations?” She has the covers strewn about and her hands under his shirt within seconds, more-so intent on ridding him of it than checking for any abnormalities he probably doesn’t have, but that's neither here nor there. Sometimes a situation calls for ulterior motive, is all.

“I don’t really think that’s necessary...” Fitz trails off, but still lifts up to allow Jemma to pull his shirt off completely, any remnants of his tiredness gone in an instant.

Jemma’s grin probably looks predatory now, but she couldn’t care less. “Oh, but I think it is, and I’m always right.” Fitz opens his mouth to argue but Jemma braces her hands on his chest before he can, leaning forward to press her chest against his and grinning when he shudders against her. “Are you _really_ telling me you’d rather sleep instead of having morning sex?” 

Fitz groans, gripping her hips desperately, rooting her firmly in place. Yeah, she didn’t think so.

Jemma feels a rather _insistent_ part of his body making itself aware to her and shimmies on his lap purposefully, delighted when the blush on Fitz’s face spreads to his chest. How he manages to be adorable and aroused is beyond her, really.  

She leans forward and just as their lips are _finally_ about to meet, Fitz pulls back suddenly, staring at her shirt intently before meeting her gaze, accusation plain on his features.

“Hold on a minute,” he sits up a bit, ignoring Jemma’s protests. “Is this my NASA shirt I thought I’d lost _ten_ years ago?”

Jemma sniffs delicately. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” Fitz sounds unimpressed, raising both brows as he fingers the hem of her stolen shirt. “Because unless you just so _happened_ to purchase the exact same shirt in the exact same size _and_ managed to spill Sloppy Joe on it in the _exact_ same spot, it’s hard to believe that—”

Jemma huffs, quickly removing the shirt to reveal nothing underneath except for the bare skin of her chest, effectively rendering Fitz speechless.

 _Much_ better.

“You were saying?” she inquires, her voice smug as she deliberately presses her hips against his in hopes that they can get things started, frankly, as soon as possible. Time is of the essence, she's been told by many, and in this moment, she couldn't agree more. 

“Definitely nothing important at all,” Fitz says hurriedly, pulling her flush against him to capture her lips in a heated kiss which, _thankfully_ , progresses quite quickly from there.

And really, winning isn't new territory for Jemma Simmons, but the rewards certainly never get old. _Especially_ in this particular scenario.  

* * *

Afterwards, while Jemma makes post-coital pancakes and attempts not to burn them when Fitz begins pressing kisses along her neck, it’s clear that they’re both winners, truthfully, and even when they aren’t, they’ll always have each other regardless.

(Though it’s still worth noting, in Jemma’s opinion, that Fitz never gets his shirt back. Just for the record.)


End file.
